


talks firmly and calmly

by warmly



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cohabitation, Everything in this relationship happens entirely out of order because chaos, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sort of 402 Spoilers (please see the notes!)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25595224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmly/pseuds/warmly
Summary: One morning, Matsukawa wakes up and decides he will fall out of love.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei
Comments: 96
Kudos: 728





	talks firmly and calmly

**Author's Note:**

> w/r/t **spoilers** , i talk pretty vaguely about everyone's jobs as of the last chapter. i don't really know if that constitutes a spoiler but would rather be safe than sorry!
> 
> the title is from the glass essay by anne carson, which has approximately nothing to do with the context of this fic. the specific phrase just reminded me a lot of matsukawa.
> 
> translated into **chinese** [here](https://cheirisen.lofter.com/post/1dd27d59_1cae8ae32)!

One morning, Matsukawa wakes up and decides he will fall out of love.

It's a conscious decision, and he doesn't do much with it. The morning starts and proceeds the same way as always. He shuffles out of bed, stumbles to the bathroom, and brushes his teeth while waiting for the white spots in his periphery to disappear. He shaves, only barely dodges nicking himself twice, and then looks at a row of identical pressed shirts and pretends to deliberate over them (and then proceeds to laugh a little, only to himself, because the joke gets so old that it's funny).

Looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he thinks, his gaze landing on a pink toothbrush that isn't his, _Hm, yeah. It's a good day to fall out of love._

* * *

"Is that how it works," Iwaizumi deadpans. He's on his second beer, which probably means work's been stressful. Matsukawa thinks to ask, but his _asking_ comes across as mocking these days (and maybe intentionally, because it's really, _really_ funny that Iwaizumi's job is essentially to babysit their high school rivals and then some), so he wisely shrugs his shoulders instead. The furrow between Iwaizumi's brows deepens. "That's not how it works," he decides.

"Would you like to know what I think?" asks Matsukawa.

Iwaizumi presses his lips together. He considers it. "No, not really." A beat later: "Tell me anyway."

"I think," Matsukawa starts, leaning back in his seat and reaching out—just for a moment, before retracting his hand on second thought—for the last of the yakitori. The empty seat beside him is kind of like his impulse control. "I think it's cute that you're so invested in my love life. Wait. Could it be? Iwaizumi? Are you in love with _m—_ "

" _Cram it_ ," Iwaizumi grunts at the same time someone places a cold hand against the back of Matsukawa's neck; at the same time _that someone_ says, voice like a smile, "Perish the thought." 

Hanamaki slips into the empty chair next to Matsukawa and rubs his hands together, unraveling a scarf from around his neck and draping it over the back of his seat. He busies himself with settling into the atmosphere (like he isn't twenty minutes late even though he has nowhere else to be) for a few seconds before finally reaching for the last skewer of chicken on the table. 

"Anyway," continues Hanamaki, around a mouthful, "Iwaizumi's in love with _me_. Knew ever since he held my hand that one time."

"We were _arm wrestling_ ," Iwaizumi grits out.

"Yeah, but our gazes met across that desk and I swear... it was electrifying," Hanamaki croons, one cheek bulging as he clasps his hands together dreamily. With skill (and practice, no doubt), Hanamki just barely manages to dodge a balled up napkin Iwaizumi hurls his way. 

Matsukawa muffles a laugh behind the palm of his hand. 

Iwaizumi shakes his head, pressing his fingertips against his temples. "I have a headache," he grumbles. 

"You're too old to be shy," Hanamaki says with a goading roll of his eyes. He grins shortly after, settling a clean skewer back on the plate. "Anyway, what were we talking about? Iwaizumi's love life? My favorite topic. Just the other day I was interrupted during my morning shower by a distress call from Oikawa demanding to know if Iwaizumi noticed Oikawa's been giving him silent treatment yet. So if we had to do a status check, I'd say Iwaizumi's love life isn't going too hot. " 

Iwaizumi looks up from his glass with a frown. "He's been giving me silent treatment?" His grip around the handle of his glass slackens. "No, hold on. Not what we were talking about." With a shake of his head, he continues, "Matsukawa decided he's falling out of love." 

Hanamaki stills then, expression easing into one of mild disinterest. "Yeah, I got the text." 

"The text?"

Matsukawa takes a long, meaningless sip of his own glass, his gaze flickering from the table to the television screen playing women's volleyball. 

"Yeah." Hanamaki's chair screeches when he pushes it back, lifting a hand to attract the attention of a passing server. "The text, and I quote, read—" Hanamaki purposely lowers his voice and makes himself sound as emotionless as possible. "—' _Thought about it and I am not in love with you effective immediately._ '"

Someone scores on screen. The server scurries over to Hanamaki's side. 

"Another helping of yakitori and also a glass of what they're having—" 

"What," Iwaizumi demands.

"What?" Hanamaki pauses. "What do you want? A refill?"

Iwaizumi narrows his eyes. The server catches the hint and leaves. "What?" he repeats. He turns to stare, pointedly, at Matsukawa. " _What_? You just texted him? Saying that? And like _that_? Like a contract termination? Like you're _business_ acquaintances?" He presses his lips into a line again, like he always does when he's equal parts baffled and equal parts irritated. One of Matsukawa's favorite expressions. "You're joking," Iwaizumi concludes.

"I can show you the text," Hanamaki offers.

"No. You're joking." 

Someone changes the channel. A pretty girl advertises jewelry from a shop Matsukawa passes every day on his way to work. ' _A diamond ring is the best way to warm up this winter!_ ' she says. It doesn't even make sense.

"Not joking," Matsukawa finally says, dropping his hand from his chin to the table and offering Iwaizumi a faint, crooked smile. "Thought Hanamaki deserved to know." 

Iwaizumi stares at them. "You're joking," he repeats, and it almost sounds like a threat. "So you're breaking up? Just like that?"

Hanamaki doesn't even bat an eye. "We weren't in a—"

"Whatever this is," Iwaizumi interjects, gesturing vaguely to Matsukawa and Hanamaki. "It's over? _Just like that?_ "

Matsukawa hums, thoughtfully, before leaning forward in his seat. Iwaizumi's questions make it seem so much simpler than it is. Or, _well_ , Matsukawa doesn't ever want to admit anything's complicated, but he can't deny it this time around. He figures there are things that aren't meant to be discussed at a dingy pub in a corner of Tokyo. This is probably one of those things. Some things, he doesn't really want to discuss anywhere. At least not beyond the bare minimum. This is definitely one of those things. 

He takes a glance at his wristwatch and thinks he should probably head back home soon. 

"So Oikawa's giving Iwaizumi silent treatment again?" Matsukawa purses his lips, stroking his chin in feigned contemplation. "Thought it was strange he was replying to everyone but Iwaizumi in the group chat." 

"Hey—"

"It was a few days ago though," Hanamaki replies, easily, like he's thinking the same exact thoughts as Matsukawa—like he always seems to be. "Maybe he got over himself when he realized how much he misses his _Iwa-chan_."

"God, not you too," Iwaizumi groans. 

"Weekly epiphany," Matsukawa says with a crooked grin. 

Beneath the table, Hanamaki knocks his ankle against Matsukawa's once. It might be an accident. And then he does it again, and Matsukawa knows it isn't. 

Matsukawa sneaks a glance at the side of Hanamaki's face. They don't meet eyes. 

Ordinarily, he might do it back. But not today. As of today, he's not in love.

"You're both assholes," announces Iwaizumi.

Matsukawa smiles, doesn't miss the way Hanamaki's grin widens—even from out of the corner of his eye, and takes another idle sip. 

* * *

At some point, it just makes sense to fall in love with Hanamaki. And at some point, he starts to think Hanamaki might feel the same. And then at some point, he realizes maybe Hanamaki doesn't—never did. And at some point, he stops being curious about it (stops _letting_ himself be curious about it). At some point, he tells Hanamaki the truth, once, twice. And at some point, Hanamaki doesn't give him an answer, only kisses him—sloppily, drunkenly—and doesn't say anything the next day. At some point, the lines blur. At some point, it's hard to figure out what they are beyond _just friends_ because they aren't _just_ friends, not anymore. And at some point, they both stop trying to define it. But at some point, he has to wonder if this is productive. At some point, he thinks it might not be.

At some point, Matsukawa figures it only makes sense to fall out of love with Hanamaki. 

And at some point, he decides sooner is better than later. 

"Soooooo," Hanamaki drawls out. It's chilly in the evenings, and even with the scarf bound around his neck, the tips of Hanamaki's ears are a bright pink. Matches his hair. "How was the wedding?"

"Fine," Matsukawa replies. It was more a formality than anything, but he supposes it's nice dropping by Tokyo every now and then instead of expecting Iwaizumi and Hanamaki to meet him in Miyagi. "Nice, I guess. The bride and groom looked pretty happy."

"Pretty happy?" Hanamaki echoes with a laugh. "I'd imagine. Bummer you have to head back so soon. You can crash on my couch if you want, you know." 

"You're just trying to trick me into cleaning your apartment for you." 

"Yeah, well, worth a try." 

Once, Hanamaki had asked—in between kisses— _Why do you think I come to Miyagi so often?_

He didn't know the answer. Suggested something along the lines of _filial piety_ and had gotten a laugh instead of any sort of affirmation. Matsukawa wonders if Hanamaki's lonely these days. Maybe that's it. 

"So," Hanamaki starts, again. "Find someone new?" 

Matsukawa scuffs his shoe against the pavement. "What do you mean?"

They walk in silence for a few weighted seconds, the clamor of the crowd like white noise. One of Hanamaki's hands is in Matsukawa's jacket pocket, clutching onto the hand-warmer Matsukawa had been deliberate in buying on his way to the bar. 

"Never mind," Hanamaki says, and he doesn't say it rudely, or maliciously. He brushes it off like the question didn't matter and Matsukawa doesn't push it. "Kind of a rude text, don't you think? _I am not in love with you effective immediately_ ," he mocks. 

Matsukawa shrugs. "Better than not saying anything."

"Wouldn't be so sure," replies Hanamaki. They're in a patch of the street without much lighting so Matsukawa can't gauge his expression. "Eh, I guess it's nice to get a head's up." 

_Isn't it better this way?_ he thinks to ask. 

Truth be told, he'd sent the text without thinking much of it. Without expecting much, either. Maybe a laugh, maybe a question mark, maybe a completely irrelevant message asking about whether the Lawson's he lives near has that rice bowl Hanamaki really likes in stock because it never seems to be around by the time Hanamaki makes it to the corner shop closest to him.

But now that it's out there and now that he can't take it back, Matsukawa has to wonder if he really meant it. 

"Nothing's really changing," he says, and he isn't sure if that's the right thing to say because Hanamaki pulls his hand away not even a second later. 

"It's about time," Hanamaki mutters instead, kicking a stray pebble away. It stutters once, twice, and then disappears into the shadows. He doesn't elaborate. "What's your ideal type?" 

Unintentionally, Matsukawa bites out a laugh. "Trying to play Cupid?" 

"Don't be so shy."

The thing about falling in love, Matsukawa notes with much derision, is that it's not a conscious decision after all. And much like falling in love, falling _out_ of love isn't something that's as easy as choosing which black shirt he wants to wear to work today, tomorrow, yesterday. 

In the faint glow of the city streets, Hanamaki has a softness to him that makes Matsukawa's heart stutter stupidly. He has to steel his gaze forward, expression fixed into neutrality, borderline disinterest. Maybe he was pulling a temper tantrum this morning after typing out the text. Matsukawa isn't the type of person to act out like this, but maybe he wanted Hanamaki's attention. They've both been busy, maybe Hanamaki more so. Maybe that's it. Maybe Matsukawa just _missed_ him.

But he knows that isn't quite what it was. He knows that he's never really minded that there are days, weeks, months when they go without seeing each other, physically, and that's fine. So maybe he really _does_ just want to fall out of love.

"I don't know," Matsukawa decides to say, finally. He presses his lips into a line, contemplative. "Does it really matter?"

"Maybe not," Hanamaki replies. The way he says it makes it sound like he won't push it—like it's not worth his energy after all.

"I like taking care of people," Matsukawa says. He hums thoughtfully, pulling the hand-warmer out of his own pocket and dropping it into Hanamaki's. "I guess I like when people take care of me too."

"Very romantic of you." Hanamaki's grinning behind his scarf, Matsukawa can tell. "Was expecting 'big boobs' or 'giant dick' or something along those lines, but thanks for humoring me."

"That what you wanted to hear?"

Hanamaki slips his hand into his own jacket pocket—the same one Matsukawa deposited the hand-warmer in—and doesn't say anything, at first. They walk a few steps like that, silence as comfortable as always. Distantly, Matsukawa has to wonder if he'd ever be able to find something like this with anyone else.

"Nah," says Hanamaki. "Not really sure what I wanted to hear."

The rest of the walk is quiet. Later, at the entryway of Hanamaki's building, he almost leans forward, upward, to kiss Matsukawa on the corner of his mouth, only to catch himself before he does. It's weird—how they both seem to remember at the same time that Matsukawa isn't in love anymore, and Hanamaki never was. Whatever they were before isn't supposed to exist anymore. 

"Night," Hanamaki says instead, because he's always been remarkably good at brushing things off.

"Night," Matsukawa echoes, and his heart beats a little dully against his ribcage as a reminder that he should learn to be better at brushing things off too. 

* * *

Very few people know the passcode to Matsukawa's apartment.

But of those very few people, Hanamaki is definitely one of them. So, it's beyond Matsukawa why he's forced awake at six in the morning on his sacred day off just to open the door to see none other than Pink of Hair, Dumb of Ass standing in front of him with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

"What," Matsukawa manages to rasp out, throat still tight from lack of sleep. He squints. "Something happen? Is this a nightmare?"

It's been about two weeks since the last time they saw each other at the bar. Since then, Hanamaki's been an elusive cryptid in the woods. They'd exchanged a couple of texts, sure—and Hanamaki had dialed him once to ask a suspiciously specific question about Matsukawa's work schedule—but other than that, it's been radio silence. And considering where and how their last physical conversation had left off, Matsukawa wasn't quite anticipating any quick reunions anyway. Those little lulls in the year when they're in the same place aren't uncommon, with how frequently Hanamaki seems to be back in Miyagi, but Matsukawa's gotten used to bursts of silence when they're kilometers apart, too. 

So, this is surprising, to say the least.

Matsukawa rubs his eye with the heel of his hand. Nope. Not a dream. Still might be a nightmare.

"It's six," he says, his voice less like gravel now. "In the morning," he adds, in case it wasn't clear.

Hanamaki hardly seems miffed by the clear discontent in Matsukawa's expression. Instead, he jostles past Matsukawa into the apartment, slipping his shoes off like he _lives here_ and easily toeing on the brown check slippers he's more or less laid a claim on since Matsukawa moved in, years ago. "Morning, sunshine," is all Hanamaki says. He tosses his bag onto the couch and sits, cross-legged, on the floor. "Whoa, your floors are heated. How come I didn't know this?"

"You haven't been over in months," Matsukawa reminds him without much malice. He closes the door behind him and shuffles over, taking a seat on the couch. He rubs his face with his hands, still half-asleep. "What's the occasion?"

Hanamaki offers Matsukawa a shit-eating grin, much like a cat would offer a dead animal as a gift, probably. "How cold. I can't visit my best friend out of the blue?"

"At six," Matsukawa adds. "At six in the morning on your best friend's day off. You could have let yourself in."

"Details," Hanamaki says with a flippant wave of his hand. "Anyway, I quit my job."

Maybe this is a dream, after all. "Mid-life crisis so soon, huh."

"Ha-ha, hilarious. Like you didn't have yours two years out of high school. Now you see dead people."

Matsukawa stifles a smile. Belatedly, his mind begins to process the conversation they've had thus far. "You quit your job. And then what? Canceled your lease to live the rest of your days on my futon like a persistent bedbug?"

Hanamaki looks at Matsukawa imploringly.

"You didn't."

" _We-ell_..."

"Seriously?"

Hanamaki leans backward until his head hits the edge of the couch. He tilts his head until he's resting it against Matsukawa's knee. "You were the first person I thought of," he says, like that's explanation enough. And honestly, it sort of is. "Could stay with my parents, I guess, but it'd be comfier here. Besides, I'm only going to be between jobs for a few weeks. I'll be as quiet as a mouse."

"That's not the problem," Matsukawa says. He shakes his head exasperatedly, and before he can stop himself, he pushes Hanamaki's hair away from his eyes, palm flat against his forehead for a second too long. "You quit your job just like that?"

Hanamaki closes his eyes for a moment. Opens them. "Yeah."

"You can stay," says Matsukawa, pulling his hand away. It stings, sort of. "I don't care how long, but why'd you quit? Something up?"

"Just wanted to," Hanamaki explains, though he hardly sounds interested in the conversation. "At that age where I don't really want to work a job that takes up my entire life, you know? I have things to do that aren't necessarily sitting at a desk crunching numbers. _A whole life to live._ Can't sacrifice my years of being a beautiful bachelor to capitalism." 

"You did work a lot," Matsukawa concedes. "But so suddenly?"

"You're really ignoring the beautiful bachelor comment."

"So suddenly?" Matsukawa repeats, much to Hanamaki's chagrin. 

"It's now or never."

"I guess."

"I didn't cancel my lease by the way." Hanamaki toys with a loose thread on the sleeve of his shirt, jacket shucked to the side. "It _ended_ , which is much different—legally and theoretically—from canceling it. 'Canceling my lease' makes it sound like I very recklessly broke a sacred contract to crash on your heated floor."

Matsukawa raises a brow. "But you _did_ very recklessly quit your job to crash on my heated floor?"

"Yeah, well, that's different." Hanamaki grins. "You're not actually going to make me sleep on the floor, are you? I'm getting old. My back's not the same as it used to be."

"Futon's pretty comfy," Matsukawa says, shrugging. He rises from his seat to make his way toward the kitchen. Since he's up, he supposes he might as well get the coffee going and start his day. It doesn't look like Hanamaki's going to be quieting down anytime soon. "Bed's big enough too," he adds, and he doesn't know why considering the last time they _did_ speak in person, the conversation was more or less centered on Matsukawa deciding he wasn't going to wait around for Hanamaki anymore.

But old habits die hard. And as comfy as the futon is, he figures there's no harm in acknowledging a truth they're both aware of. The bed really is big enough for both of them.

"Drawing boundary lines just to blur them, Matsukawa? You sly fox."

"The hallway is pretty comfy too if you have a good imagination," Matsukawa muses as he roots through his refrigerator for the eggs. "The hallway outside of my apartment, I mean. I'm sure my neighbors wouldn't mind."

He doesn't get an immediate response. Rather, Matsukawa hears the gentle sound of footsteps approaching him from behind. He almost expects Hanamaki to _touch_ him, but he doesn't—only hovers, for a second, before pushing Matsukawa aside. "Futon's fine," Hanamaki says. "Also, I'll make breakfast."

Matsukawa blinks. In all of the mornings they've spent together—for every reason on the spectrum—Hanamaki's never made breakfast. Not that Hanamaki's incapable of making anything edible, but Matsukawa's starting to think that something really _did_ happen.

"Did—"

"Go away," Hanamaki says, shooing Matsukawa away with a swift kick (gentle, still) to Matsukawa's shin.

"This is my apartment?"

"You haven't even brushed your teeth."

"Can I not have bad breath in my own apartment?" Matsukawa complains, though he's already stepping back to head toward the bathroom. 

By the time he makes it to the bathroom sink, he's more or less entirely woken up. He does as he's told. Brushes his teeth and even gargles with mouthwash, feeling uncharacteristically leisurely. His gaze falls to a pink toothbrush that isn't his. He reaches out, hand hovering over it.

"Hey, did you bring a toothbrush?" Matsukawa calls out.

Over a symphony of sizzling noises, he barely hears Hanamaki reply. "Yeah?"

Then he can throw this one out.

Or, well, he should. But there's a part of him—small but stubborn—that's making it difficult. It's just a toothbrush; a dingy 300-yen toothbrush from the convenience store across the street that they bought months ago when they hadn't abandoned limbo. Pink to match Hanamaki's hair. Also because the only other option was puke-green. There's nothing sentimental about a toothbrush.

"Why?" he hears Hanamaki shout back. 

Matsukawa drops his hand to his side and makes to exit the bathroom instead, the toothbrush left untouched. "No reason," he murmurs, and it doesn't matter if he's heard. 

* * *

Winter's always a busy season in funeral services. So busy that it's easy to forget to take care of himself. But—and he means this in the best way possible—he's grateful for it, the busyness. Winter, Matsukawa figures, would otherwise be a much colder and lonelier season if he wasn't preoccupied with something to fill every crevice of his thoughts.

When he wakes up at the start of the work week, he almost forgets that Hanamaki's staying with him. It's easy to forget, after all, when the futon's already empty and made-up by the time Matsukawa stumbles out of his bedroom. The faint scent of something cooking lingers in the air, but the kitchen's empty, dishes done, and there's no trace of a single person left behind. 

He's more or less convinced himself that he dreamed up the weekend until he exits the bathroom, just about ready to head to work when he nearly trips over an open duffel bag. After catching himself, he spots a bundled up box on the countertop. There's an aged yellow post-it note on top, a message scrawled out—no doubt—in permanent Zebra marker, and upon second glance, Matsukawa sees traces of where the ink bled through the paper on the counter. _Typical_ , he thinks, as he drags a finger against the marks and they don't budge.

The message is short. It reads: _when was the last time you ate a packed lunch lol_

He bites back a smile and pockets the note. 

(On the train, he texts Hanamaki: _high school lol_

Hours later, Hanamaki replies: _i made a dick out of a sausage and two cherry tomatoes. enjoy ♡_

If he scrolls up in their text message conversation for less than five seconds, he can see the words, _I am not in love with you_. He can see Hanamaki's response too, and it's all it takes to stop Matsukawa from responding too familiarly. Matsukawa closes his phone and opens his lunchbox instead. There really is a dick.

It's unfortunately delicious. He laughs.)

* * *

Maybe a week or two into cohabitation, Iwaizumi shows up at his apartment door with a case of beer. 

"You said you adopted a cat," Iwaizumi says, accusingly. 

Hanamaki, sprawled out on the couch, looks up from the television screen. Dead-eyed, he says, "Like nya?" 

" _This_ isn't a cat," Iwaizumi continues, settling the peace offering on the counter and marching straight into the kitchen, probably to micromanage the way Matsukawa's sautéing the oysters. "I came because I wanted to see the cat."

"You came because you're lonely," Hanamaki drawls out. "And probably because your parents are sick of you." 

"I wish you were a cat," Iwaizumi retorts. "And I'm fucking _delightful_." 

"Oooooh, Iwaizumi, you deviant. You're into catboys, huh?" 

" _What the hell are you even saying_."

Matsukawa stirs the oysters. Minds his own business. "Didn't you say Yahaba was coming?" 

"He said he misunderstood the situation. He's embarrassed, so he's taking a rain check," Iwaizumi replies, having realized Hanamaki isn't invested in the catboy conversation and choosing (probably wisely) not to pursue it. 

"What situation?"

Iwaizumi flattens his gaze and nudges Matsukawa to the side, grabbing the chopsticks from his hand. "I accidentally said, 'I'm going to Matsukawa and Hanamaki's place,' and he misunderstood and thought you guys made it official. So, he bought a cake. After realizing that wasn't the case, he dropped the cake and now he's embarrassed."

"Could have gone for some cake," Hanamaki says through a yawn. "Hey, doesn't this also mean you didn't come for the cat? You came for Matsukawa and Hanamaki after all. That's cute, Iwaizumi." 

"You live with _that_ on your conscience," Iwaizumi tells Matsukawa pointedly, and Matsukawa isn't sure if _that_ refers to the fallen cake or Hanamaki.

Matsukawa snickers. Truth be told, living with Hanamaki hasn't been an issue at all. For the most part, Hanamaki seems to be busy with his own affairs during the day. He's usually out of the apartment by the time Matsukawa wakes up and back by the time Matsukawa gets home from work. For some reason, he's been hell-bent on packing Matsukawa lunchboxes as frequently as possible, cleans the apartment sporadically, and strangely always has dinner ready on Fridays, which are Matsukawa's _busy_ days.

"It's not so bad," Matsukawa responds. He gives up on trying to reclaim the stove and meanders to the living room, lifting Hanamaki's legs to take a seat on the edge of the couch. There's a cheesy sitcom playing that Hanamaki seems engrossed in. Without thinking, Matsukawa reaches over to grab a blanket to toss over Hanamaki's torso.

It's only then that Hanamaki seems to notice Matsukawa's presence. He glances at him, silent, before sitting up slowly. "Why're you sitting on the edge like that?" Hanamaki asks, patting the space next to him. "It's your apartment, you know." 

"You looked pretty comfortable lying down." Matsukawa shifts until he's sitting where Hanamaki gestured. Almost instantly, Hanamaki leans toward him, shoulder pressed to Matsukawa's arm, head against Matsukawa's shoulder—gaze still fixed on the television. He moves like it's natural, like this is something he's used to (and maybe he is—maybe they are). When Hanamaki does things like this, he really is kind of like a cat. "This has shitty production value," observes Matsukawa.

"That's the charm," Hanamaki says, without even batting an eye. "The overacting, the cliche love story, the dramatic music, the blatantly obvious product placement. God, it's so bad it's good." 

"This is the kind of stuff you watch while I'm at work?"

"No, Matsukawa. Of course I don't. I sit on the couch in complete silence, purely _yearning_ , and waiting for you to come home. Counting seconds, like a sailor's wife waiting for her husband to return from hunting Moby Dick." 

"Hm. Sounds plausible." He pauses. "That's not the plot of Moby Dick though."

"Like I would _know_ —"

"Well, I really fucking wish Yahaba came now," Iwaizumi announces, and when Matsukawa looks over, he's standing at the dining table, holding a steaming frying pan in one hand and an unopened can of beer in the other—his expression the _picture_ of exasperation. 

"What? You don't talk cheesy sitcoms with your friends while glued to their side?" Hanamaki teases, getting up from his own spot on the couch to wander toward the dining table. The empty space next to Matsukawa feels too cold, too quickly. "You can sit right between us next time, Iwaizumi. A little Hajime sandwich."

"Don't ever say that ever again."

Matsukawa rises from his own seat a second later to follow suit. "Hot then cold. Iwaizumi, you're too fickle," he muses. "Or are you shy?"

"God, you guys are gross and annoying even when you're not a thing." Iwaizumi glowers, the epitome of a sullen hedgehog. He settles the pan next to a couple of other last-minute dishes. "Alright, whatever, let's eat. So, how long's it been anyway?"

"Since what?" asks Matsukawa. "Thanks for the meal."

"Thank you for the meal," Hanamaki echoes.

"Since Hanamaki started crashing here," Iwaizumi says. "Maybe Yahaba should have come. It really does kind of seem like _your place_ , collectively."

"Two weeks?" Matsukawa pauses, pursing his lips around the tips of his chopsticks. "Maybe one and a half. I don't know. I'm not keeping track. And he could have. Could have brought his cake too, and we would have gladly accepted." 

"Two weeks," Hanamaki agrees. "I think it was serendipitous. I forgot when Matsukawa's busy at work, he just completely forgets how to take care of himself. Like a newborn child." 

Iwaizumi snorts. "Winter isn't his season, that's for sure. Enjoy your babysitting gig." 

"Speaking of babysitting Matsukawa, look at this picture of the lunchbox I made him. Tell me what it looks like to you—"

Idle chatter makes time pass quickly. They catch up on seemingly nothing at all, but it's warm—the atmosphere, the conversation, and the body sitting next to him; too close, their shoulders almost brushing. 

Beneath the table, Hanamaki knocks his ankle against Matsukawa's. Once, twice. 

This time, Matsukawa does it back.

* * *

Later, Iwaizumi gets up from the table to leave. He picks up his jacket, cheeks a little pink from the alcohol, and says something about grabbing a cab. Matsukawa's building is a little tucked into a residential neighborhood. He wants some fresh air too, so he offers to walk with Iwaizumi to the main street where the taxis will be passing by. 

Hanamaki stifles a yawn and waves them off before occupying a corner of the couch again. 

"Thought you were falling out of love with him," Iwaizumi says as soon as they make it down the stairs and out of the building. And as sharp as the words feel, Matsukawa knows Iwaizumi hardly means anything cruel by them. 

It's chilly these days. Even with the heat running, Matsukawa thinks it's probably cold out in the living room. Maybe he should grab an extra blanket for Hanamaki. Or maybe—

"Am I not?" Matsukawa smiles. He isn't sure how to answer his own question. "I thought I was too." 

"And then?"

The walk to the main road isn't that far. This conversation can't go for too long without Hanamaki getting suspicious. 

Matsukawa isn't even sure where to start. "I don't know," he confesses. "One morning, I woke up and decided I didn't want to deal with unrequited love anymore. And then the person I thought I was moving on from showed up at my doorstep like an abandoned cat. Two weeks passed and I realized there has to be a reason why being around him is stupidly easy. There has to be a reason why I can't throw out a dingy old toothbrush—a reason that isn't _just_ because it is, _was_ his. Don't you agree?"

"Hey," Iwaizumi starts, brows furrowed.

"I'm an idiot, I kn—"

"That's not it." The neighborhood's pretty empty. He isn't even sure what time it is anymore, but the fatigue that lingers in Iwaizumi's features tells Matsukawa it might be past bedtime. "How do you even know?" 

Matsukawa hums. "Know?"

"How do you even know it's unrequited?"

"That's easy," Matsukawa replies, maybe a little too quickly. "I don't. At all." Truth be told, sometimes, he doesn't even think it is. But if the only reason why they haven't moved beyond square one is the same reason why they never will, then Matsukawa isn't sure if it's worth anyone's energy anymore. 

(But that's a strange way to put it. A strange thing to do. Are relationships ever supposed to be _worth_ energy? Can't they just _be_?) 

Iwaizumi frowns. "What the hell does that mean."

It means exactly what he's said. 

He doesn't know for sure if Hanamaki's ever really liked him back—if he _likes_ him back, to this day.

(Sure, he knows that what they have, _had_ , was good, easy, and everything a relationship could be. But there are days when he wonders if it's just an extension of a friendship that always was too close for comfort.)

He doesn't know, isn't sure if he wants to know if it means he has to deal with another fissure in his heart. He's convinced himself he doesn't _need_ to know. Convinced himself out of his own curiosity. It's been years of this, of tiptoeing around each other, traipsing the line between friends and lover—neither of them willing to call it anything at all. It's like they've made a mutual agreement that this is fine, whatever this is.

And then Matsukawa decides it isn't for the both of them—and in retrospect, maybe that was selfish of him.

In an ideal world, Matsukawa's sure he would have moved on by now. They'd have moved on from a tiptoe into a sprint. 

But he can't. This world isn't ideal. Or maybe _that_ world isn't ideal, after all.

"We did our little tango for so long, I don't think either of us really dared to know until I decided it was over." 

"I take it back. You're an idiot."

"Hey, I told him, you know," Matsukawa says, a laugh slipping past his lips in spite of the conversation. "I told him I liked him. He never said anything back. Sure, it was back in high school, but I told him. What am I supposed to do? Ask him again? In this economy?" 

"You're both idiots then."

They're at the main street. Even the cars are quiet. 

"At some point, you start to feel okay with the bare minimum. And you forget that you can want more than that. But then you remember and it's a cycle of convincing yourself to forget again." Matsukawa bites the inside of his cheek. It's really cold and he regrets leaving without a thicker jacket. "That's how it's always been with him. Even now, I—"

Iwaizumi turns to look at him, brow raised. "What is it?"

"Nothing. I just think this conversation's absurd," Matsukawa says. He chuckles again. "I don't know if I've ever said any of this out loud." 

"Wouldn't put it past you."

"I stopped counting the days." Matsukawa holds a hand out feebly, but a cab drives past them. He clicks his tongue. "The days he's been at my place. I think half a week in, I just started thinking, _I wouldn't mind if you stayed._ Am I still in love with him? Sure. Let's say I am. But in a couple of weeks, he'll be back at his own place and I'll have the space to think about how we're much better off if I just throw in the towel now." He shakes his head. "It's for the better."

Iwaizumi _stares_ at Matsukawa and for a few passing moments, they stand like that—in silence. And then, without much warning at all, Iwaizumi yanks Matsukawa's ear. _Hard_.

" _Fucking hell_ —"

"Oi, _dumbass_ ," Iwaizumi grits out, "who the hell are you to decide that for Hanamaki?"

"That _hurt_ ," Matsukawa hisses, rubbing at his ear with much futility. "If he wanted to decide, wouldn't he have said something by now?" 

Iwaizumi narrows his eyes before punching Matsukawa (lightly) in the side. "You absolute idiot," he says. "Don't ever call me dense again." With authority, Iwaizumi jerks a hand out into the street and a taxi starts approaching them almost immediately.

"Don't leave me hanging." Matsukawa shifts to rub at his side. Iwaizumi really doesn't know his own strength. Some things never change. 

It's only when the cab slows to a stop before them that Iwaizumi turns, the door left slightly ajar. "Think about the fact that the guy you practically dumped without warning showed up at your place like a kicked puppy. He goes out of his way to take care of you, stays glued to your side even when you're not going anywhere, and is probably awake right this second despite all the yawning he was doing because he wants to wait until you get back." Iwaizumi takes one step into the car before pausing again. "Listen, I didn't want to meddle too much because this isn't my business. You and Hanamaki are my best friends, so I knew when this—whatever _this_ is—started, there was a time and place for me to get involved. I don't know if that time or place is now, but I'll tell you anyway. You listening?

"It isn't _ever_ going to be as simple as you just deciding it's ' _for the better_.'"

Matsukawa doesn't say a single word.

Iwaizumi lets out a heavy sigh. "Dumbass," he grumbles, and before the door closes: "Hurry home. There's someone waiting for you."

* * *

Once, he told Hanamaki that his ideal type was probably someone who could take care of him. It's true, to some degree, but Matsukawa isn't really sure if that's the end of it. He supposes he said whatever came to mind second, because what came to mind first wasn't a trait or an archetype—it was a person, face clear as day. 

Matsukawa taps the passcode to his apartment door in slowly. When he opens the door, Hanamaki's still awake—barely—and curled up on the couch, a blanket drawn around his shoulders, eyes heavy as he watches an old movie on the television.

"Not sleeping?"" Matsukawa asks, in lieu of any formal greeting.

Hanamaki glances at him and promptly topples over so he's lying down on the couch. "In a minute."

"Want another blanket? It's probably going to be cold." 

"I'm good," Hanamaki says, attention fixed on the television screen. "What took you so long?" 

Matsukawa falters for a second before rummaging through the closet for a thicker blanket. "I walk slowly."

"Your legs are like trees."

"Trees are rooted into place," he replies, smiling wryly. "I was just talking with Iwaizumi. He thinks I'm a dumbass." 

It occurs to him on his walk back to the apartment that this entire situation—it doesn't make any sense. And then when he thinks about it, he realizes that maybe nothing about them makes sense. Best friends all throughout high school, something like lovers but not quite ever since. Even now, Matsukawa has to wonder which lines he's blurred; if there were ever lines to blur in the first place. He has to wonder if it really was Hanamaki who drew those lines, or maybe if it was Matsukawa drawing them without even realizing.

Maybe this is just the way they're meant to be. 

"Aren't we all," Hanamaki murmurs.

Perhaps foolishly, Matsukawa abandons his hunt for a winter blanket and approaches Hanamaki instead. He stands beside him for a second, looking to the television to see what kind of movie's on before turning his attention back to Hanamaki.

"Come to bed," Matsukawa says. 

Hanamaki shifts to meet Matsukawa's gaze and stares, blankly. "I'm in bed," he says, like it's obvious. 

"It's cold out here." He isn't sure who he's trying to convince anymore. "The bed's warmer." 

It's then that it seems to click for Hanamaki, too. He sits up, brows furrowed ever so slightly—but only for a moment. He fixes his expression into an almost _goading_ smile just seconds after, and for a brief flicker of time, Matsukawa wonders if he means it.

"Oho, Matsukawa. I'll misunderstand if you come across too strong."

"No, you won't," Matsukawa replies, easily. He returns Hanamaki's smile with a smaller one of his own before beginning to walk away. "I won't force you, but if it gets cold, just come to bed." No response yet. Matsukawa wills himself not to turn back around. "Good night."

* * *

Matsukawa wakes up the next morning with _someone_ in his arms, close to his chest. The familiarity is jarring; almost aches. But he lets out a tiny sigh and realizes after the fact that maybe, just maybe, it was a breath of relief.

He's careful to explicate his arms, to sit up without stirring Hanamaki. 

Again, he thinks about lines. About boundaries. About how little he cares about them in this exact moment. He told himself—told Hanamaki—weeks ago that whatever they had ought to end. 

Now, leaning over to press a kiss to Hanamaki's temple, Matsukawa has to wonder if he ever really expected things to pan out. 

He touches his lower lip gently when he realizes it's too late to pretend nothing happened. The boundaries—maybe he was the only one drawing them, after all. 

* * *

Things should be confusing after that, but maybe they've both gotten better at brushing things off. 

If Hanamaki's anything like Matsukawa, he probably has a list of excuses running through his mind like an afterthought if anything goes wrong. _(Because we're friends_ , being one of them.) And he's not one for excuses, but he supposes sometimes they're just _necessary_. For him, they're a contingency.

"Your girlfriend must be treating you well these days," one of his coworkers comments. It's a passing remark that shouldn't hit him so hard, but it snaps Matsukawa out of his midday trance abruptly.

"Think she'd have to exist first," he replies with a wry smile.

"Huh. Would have bet my life those lunchboxes were coming from a place of love," they tease. 

Matsukawa stifles a laugh behind the palm of his hands, thinks back to the first one—and he loses count of how many there've been since then. He thinks the conversation's over for the most part and he's just about to return his attention to the numbers he's been looking at when his coworker continues, maybe just to distract himself from his own thoughts.

"You're usually gloomy around this time of year," his coworker continues. "Well, _gloomier_. You've always got that—" They wave a hand in front of their face. "—tall, dark, and handsome kind of vibe. _Brooding_ , at least until you talk."

"Are you insulting me?"

"No, no, I'm just saying... You look really happy these days," they say, dragging a beat-up broom across the floor lifelessly. "Hey, but if you're single, I could set you up with one of my friends—"

Later, after Matsukawa's done with work and back at home, he tells Hanamaki what happened, half-expecting some snide remark or at least a laugh.

Instead, Hanamaki is quiet. _Too_ quiet, and when Matsukawa turns to gauge his expression, the potatoes he'd been chopping neglected behind him, he can see that Hanamaki's brows are furrowed. 

"I thought it was funny," Matsukawa says, and he doesn't know why it sounds like he's making excuses. "Maybe not?"

"What?" Hanamaki looks up from the dining table. Their eyes meet briefly before Matsukawa returns his attention to the chopping board. "Oh, I zoned out."

"Just call me boring to my face."

"Okay, turn back around and I'll tell you you're boring." It's like his words are grinning. Matsukawa doesn't have to look to imagine the wicked smile on Hanamaki's lips. But the illusion shatters when Hanamaki continues speaking. "So, are you going to do it?"

The potatoes are a little lumpy. He's not the greatest at cooking, in all honesty, but he tries his best, reasoning with himself that everything will look the same once it's consumed. He wonders where Hanamaki learned to cook. "Do what?"

Hanamaki's chair scrapes against the floor and he lifts his legs to cross them. "Let your coworker set you up on a blind date." 

Matsukawa pauses. "That was your takeaway? My coworker thought the dick lunch box you made me was supposed to be a rocket ship."

"Okay, well, your coworker being blind aside, I'm just curious—"

Quietly, Matsukawa settles the knife back down and wipes his hands on a kitchen towel. He turns again to face Hanamaki, this time with much more deliberation. It's the years of friendship, but he can read Hanamaki like an open book sometimes. Right now is no exception. There's a blank expression on Hanamaki's face, sure, but Matsukawa doesn't miss the way he scowls for a second—as soon as their eyes meet—like he's been caught before he looks away. 

"What is it?" Matsukawa presses. "What do you really want to ask?" 

Hanamaki raises a brow, the curl of his lips easy, almost goading. He sits properly again; the chair screeching one more time. "Didn't I just ask?"

It doesn't look like he'll budge, so Matsukawa doesn't bother trying for anything more. "I could," he says, instead. He leans against the counter. Neither of them say a single word for a second. "Should I?" 

A laugh of disbelief slips past Hanamaki's lips. "You need my permission?" he asks, teasing. "Do whatever you want."

"I don't," Matsukawa replies. "I'm just curious," he echoes.

It's inconvenient, the way Iwaizumi's voice seems to pierce through Matsukawa's focus. ( _It isn't ever going to be as simple as you just deciding it's 'for the better.'_ ) He isn't sure what he's expecting Hanamaki to say, isn't sure if he's expecting anything at all. But there's a part of him that's speaking without thinking—maybe holding out for a semblance of hope, any sort of indication that they've grown out of growing into each other; that they've both come to terms with the fact that some lines are just meant to be blurred, were never meant to be _drawn._

But Hanamaki only shifts, elbow pressed to the surface of the table, his chin resting against an open palm. "Do whatever you want," he repeats. There's a smile on his lips, sure, but Matsukawa doesn't miss the way it falters.

"Okay," he replies, and he doesn't elaborate.

Silence isn't out of the ordinary for them. It's usually comfortable, but today, it's asphyxiating. He doesn't feel like he's sinking, doesn't feel like he can't breathe, but it's like something's rattling inside of him—like something is so close to breaking past a careful confine he's built over the years. 

Maybe Hanamaki can relate. 

He's seconds away from moving on when Hanamaki speaks: "Are you ignoring it?" 

"Ignoring what?" Matsukawa crosses his arms against his chest and tilts his head to the side. "Am I missing something?"

"I mean—are you going to ignore it?" Hanamaki's smile wavers again and he clenches his jaw before forcing a grin. It's like he finds this funny too. This entire situation, _himself_ , but he's hit that point where the humor's almost cloying. "You can tell, can't you?"

Matsukawa meets Hanamaki's gaze levelly, doesn't bother trying to mirror the faltering expression on Hanamaki's face. "What am I ignoring?" 

"Are you ignoring," Hanamaki begins again, speaking so slowly, deliberately, carefully that it feels like the words are being pulled from his tongue unwillingly, "how badly I want to say—"

Quiet again. The rattling, louder. Matsukawa almost speaks, almost says, _I know. You don't have to say it._ But he doesn't say it because a part of him might need to hear it, after all. So, he stands there as patiently as possible, and he thinks if there's anything he can give to Hanamaki then, now, tomorrow, yesterday—it's always been patience. 

"Don't," Hanamaki finally says. 

Matsukawa drops his arms to his sides, pressing his palms to the edge of the counter behind him. "Don't what?" 

"Don't go on the date."

He smiles, faintly; can't tell if it's out of exasperation, out of gratitude, or if he just doesn't know what face to put on anymore. "You told me to do whatever I wanted." 

"I know." Hanamaki swallows, thickly. "But don't go on the date." 

"Okay." Matsukawa pushes himself up off the edge of the counter and straightens his posture, poised to return to cooking dinner. He exhales quietly. "I wasn't going to." 

"... Hey—"

"I'm not annoyed," he interjects before Hanamaki even tries to ask, to apologize. He doesn't really have much of an appetite anymore, and it really isn't because he's upset. Matsukawa feels fine. If anything, he might be relieved. "I just think we should grow out of this." 

Hanamaki laughs, and it comes out as a borderline scoff, something incredulous. "Didn't you already?" 

One morning, months ago, Matsukawa woke up and decided he would fall out of love. It wasn't a well thought-out plan. He isn't even sure why he decided that day. Isn't sure why he decided it had to be then. 

Isn't sure why he thought things just worked like that.

Or, well, he knows—even knew then—that they never did. 

"I told you I liked you when we graduated high school," Matsukawa says. "And then I told you I loved you before you moved to Tokyo. I don't think I've ever heard you say it back, and I didn't really need to. Not for a while. But recently, I thought maybe it meant something that you didn't."

Hanamaki jerks his head up, lips parted like he has something to say. He closes his mouth shortly after, palms flat on the table, slowly curling into fists. Uncurling.

"Some days, you're easy to read," Matsukawa continues. "Some days, it's impossible. Did I grow out of it? No. Maybe I was waiting for you to take the first step." 

"You weren't the first person I kissed," Hanamaki says quickly, nearly interrupting Matsukawa. "Weren't even the first person I slept with. Not the first person I've ever liked." Hanamaki falters and he lets out a derisive laugh before it trails off into something smaller, quieter, rawer. "But I—you weren't just my friend."

Matsukawa stills, feels frozen in place.

"How do I say this without sounding like an idiot? Well, fuck it," Hanamaki grumbles, his shoulders rising and falling when he sighs, like he's trying to take a deep breath before he speaks. "You're the first person I fell in love with, and at some point that just made sense to me," he says, cautiously. And then, with confidence, "Sometimes I can't remember the first person I kissed or the first person I slept with or the first person I liked, but I can remember every little detail about how stupidly serious you looked while picking out a toothbrush for me. I can remember the first time _we_ kissed like it was seconds ago. You're right. Maybe I never said any of this out loud. Maybe it's too fucking late now, but I guess you could say I'm crazy about you. I thought it was obvious. I didn't think I needed to say anything."

"You didn't," Matsukawa agrees, and it's strange how he's always been so level-headed, but Hanamaki makes it seem like his heart was meant to race. 

"Then why'd you send the text, you asshole?" Hanamaki looks tired even with the smile on his lips. "That stupid, god damn text." 

Why _did_ he send the text?

Deep down, Matsukawa thinks there's always been a part of him that's _known_ that in some way, shape, or form, they've always kind of been in _like_ ; in _love_ with each other. He's had days where his hunch wasn't as strong, sure. Weeks—usually spent apart—where he found himself wondering if he'd imagined everything. All it ever took was another text, a single phone call, a glance in each other's directions and everything would dissipate; every doubt, every concern, every second guess. Suddenly, it wasn't important to know. 

But those doubts never disappear permanently, and maybe that's just how it is when you're dwelling in something that feels too good to be true, too easy to be _yours_. 

"Wasn't confident," Matsukawa says, his own shoulders rising (inhale) and falling (exhale). "I'm not the most confident person in the world when it comes to you." 

"Honestly, it was kind of a wake-up call," says Hanamaki, flattening his hands on the table again before sliding them off, letting them sit on his lap, comically demurely. He leans back in his chair, feigns nonchalance even though he probably knows Matsukawa won't buy it. "I thought maybe I had it coming. Maybe I should have said something sooner instead of expecting you to just _get it_ and be okay with everything, or, well, _nothing_. But it was a wake-up call. That's why I asked you what your ideal type was. Because I thought—well, I thought, _maybe it isn't too late_."

"That's why you made me a lunch box with a dick on it?"

"One of many, yeah," Hanamaki says, grinning, but there's a fragility to the way he's smiling that makes Matsukawa want to kiss him. 

"You replied to my text with ' _okay._ _then, thanks_.' What did that mean?" 

Hanamaki _looks_ at Matsukawa, half-expectantly, half like he's measuring him—trying to gauge if this question is serious. "Exactly what it said. What was I supposed to say? I panicked. It took me like a week after to realize maybe I fucked up, and maybe I wanted to chase after this after all. But I meant it." He fidgets. "Thanks. For—well, _everything_."

"I didn't send the text to you thinking you'd take it seriously," confesses Matsukawa. "I guess what I was really hoping for was that you'd open it, read through it, and tell me I was being stupid. Maybe you'd tell me that falling out love isn't something that just happens." He chuckles to himself. "I guess I was hoping you'd say something along the lines of, _if you fall out of love with me, then what am I supposed to do?_ "

"That's cheesy," Hanamaki says, but there's no malice—and no lilt—to his tone. "I didn't peg you for the type."

"You do bring out the worst in me." They aren't looking at each other, and that's okay. It's starting to make sense for Matsukawa too, all over again, why this entire mess seemed to grow and grow until it was beyond the both of them. Maybe he sent the text as a joke; maybe the response made him think it was serious. Maybe Hanamaki saw the text as something serious; maybe everything that happened after made him think falling out of love had to be as confusing as falling in love.

Who falls out of love by making the same exceptions, the same excuses, and the same mistakes? 

"Come sit here," Hanamaki says, reaching an arm across the table to pat the space opposite him. "I want to..." He covers half of his face with a hand, drags it down his cheek. "Let's talk."

Matsukawa doesn't protest, but when he walks to the empty seat and settles in, he has to ask, if only to say _anything_ , "What have we _been_ doing?" 

"I want to see your face clearly." The tips of Hanamaki's ears are pink and there's a certain twinkle to his eye that's both comforting and exhilarating. "Living with you makes even a meter feel far these days." 

"That's cheesy," Matsukawa says, folding his arms atop the table. "Didn't peg you for the type."

"Well, you're in for a boatload then," Hanamaki replies, but he doesn't continue—at least not immediately. He looks pensive again, like he's thinking over everything he's been trying to say.

"You don't have to say anything." And Matsukawa means it. What's already been said is enough for him. 

"No, just—give me a second," Hanamaki mumbles, elbows on the table, face buried into his hands before he takes a deep breath. "Okay. This might come across as a surprise to you, but I'm not very good at talking about my feelings."

Matsukawa smiles.

"But after I read that text—well, you pretty much articulated everything I wanted to say. So, did I say those things? No. I didn't. Thought that'd be a little selfish, _greedy_ of me. But I wanted to. Wanted to call you right then and there and tell you _no_. That's not fair. You can't make me fall in love with you like this—to the point that I run away from you constantly because sometimes it feels too good to be true—and then decide on your own that it's done." The smile Hanamaki's wearing coupled with the red of his ears is something Matsukawa's never really seen before. He doesn't think he'd ever get sick of it. "Wanted to call you, tell you all of those things, but I didn't. Because I knew you'd indulge me and I don't know if I could just live with that on my conscience, knowing you're always the one taking care of me.

"So, yeah. I guess I kind of dropped the ball on that. I was going to quit my job before everything happened and do some soul-searching, but I got out of the train station the morning after I resigned, got in a cab, and the first place I ended up was at your door. Soul-searching, right? Guess I didn't have to look very far." Hanamaki slides his hand across the table, palm upward, and he looks at Matsukawa— _waits_.

Matsukawa glances at the hand, at Hanamaki, and then settles his own hand right on top with a faint chuckle. 

"I have to go back to Tokyo next week," Hanamaki says, rising from his seat, though his hand's still in Matsukawa's. "Told a buddy I'd help him with his shop for a couple of months before settling somewhere full-time. Maybe I'll end up staying in Tokyo, but this time, I don't want any texts from you at ass o'clock in the morning talking about falling out of love."

"Are you threatening me?" Matsukawa asks, as Hanamaki leans over the table, freeing his hand from Matsukawa's to cup Matsukawa's cheek, to tilt his chin up. 

They draw close. Matsukawa fills the spaces Hanamaki leaves behind.

"Not a threat," says Hanamaki. And when they kiss, he smiles into it—Matsukawa can't help but smile too. "Just a promise." 

"I'm sensitive. I'll remember if you break a promise."

Hanamaki grins and kisses him again. "You're stupid," he says. "Falling out of love isn't something that just _happens_ ," he continues. And he lingers, close, so close that Matsukawa can still feel the warmth of his breath against his lips. "If you fall out of love with me, then what am I supposed to do?"

Matsukawa meets him again, gentler, the kiss lingering. "Then I won't," he says. "And _that's_ a threat." 

* * *

A week goes by too quickly, but not much changes over seven days. He's almost grateful for it. It's like a sign that, in a way, it was always inevitable that this is where they'd end up. Back to the comfortable back-and-forth they've always had.

"This whole thing is chaotic," Hanamaki announces one morning, looking up from the duffel bag he's been shoving clothes into, hair still disheveled from tumbling out of bed. "We did everything out of order. You didn't even wine and dine me in high school." 

"We weren't legal in high school."

"It's the principle," Hanamaki retorts. "No flowers, no fireworks, no chocolates. You even made me buy you melon bread every other day. What were you, my bully?" 

"We played rock, paper, scissors and you lost, actually."

"Only cowards don't put rock out first." Hanamaki holds a shirt up and squints at it. "Is this yours? Ah, well, no matter. Mine now." 

"You can have it," Matsukawa says. "As payback for the melon bread."

"You're not giving it to me. I'm _taking_ it," corrects Hanamaki. "My role in this relationship is no longer _giving_. It's only _taking_." 

"Relationship, huh," Matsukawa muses out loud, finishing his glass of water and settling it on the coffee table. "Wouldn't that make us boyfriends?"

Hanamaki looks up from the mess he's made of packing and has the audacity to look taken aback by Matsukawa's (joking) question. "Use a coaster, you beast," he says, first. And then, "I made a phallic lunchbox for you. You think I'd do that for just anyone?" 

Because he's good at following directions, Matsukawa does fish out a coaster from the bottom of the table. "It was delicious, but maybe down the road you could consider something less explicit, like a teddy bear."

"Relationship week two and I'm already being asked for too much." Hanamaki seems to give up on packing for the time being. He pushes his bag away and climbs up onto the couch instead, lifting Matsukawa's arm to put it around his shoulders. Without much preamble, he slumps against Matsukawa and lets out a sigh. "Nothing's changed. Week two and I still resent your biceps."

"Week two," echoes Matsukawa. "What should we call the eight years we spent being whatever we were before today?"

"Growing pains," Hanamaki replies, too easily. 

They stay like that. In a few hours, Hanamaki will be on a train back to Tokyo. Maybe in a few weeks, there'll be some bumps in the road. Maybe there won't be any. 

It's fine. Matsukawa is okay with not knowing. Some questions just don't need answer. 

"Hm," he murmurs. "I guess I'd say we grew well, then." 

"Yeah, I'd say so too." 

* * *

("If Argentina wins this match, I get to propose to you," Hanamaki announces.

Matsukawa looks up from the sink, where he's washing the last of the dishes. Hanamaki's really only in town to catch the Olympic games with the rest of their friends. It's been another day of living in the same space again, but not much has changed. "Propose?" he repeats. "You're already thinking of the wedding? If I didn't know any better, I'd think you have a crush on me."

"What, can't a guy dream? The soba you made last night really hit the spot. I'm just trying to secure my fortune." 

"You want to marry me for my soba and not for my personality or good looks?" Matsukawa dries his hands off and walks back to the dining table where Hanamaki's been picking at a bunch of grapes. "I'm not sure if I'm flattered, but thanks."

"The soba's just the cherry on top," Hanamaki says, grinning. He holds a hand up to cup Matsukawa's face, drawing him closer and forcing him to bend down until their lips brush. "Anyway, Argentina wins and I get to propose. Not today or tomorrow, but some day. Watch your back. So don't try to pull a fast one on me. And I guess if Japan wins... I don't know. Whatever you want." 

"You really _do_ have a crush on me," Matsukawa teases, pecking Hanamaki on the forehead before he shifts to grab his keys from the countertop. "That's embarrassing."

"You confessed first." 

"In _high school_. Anyway, we should get going if we don't want to miss the game. Yahaba sent the address to the bar, right?" 

"Yep, yep, got it right here."

While Hanamaki's gathering whatever belongings he needs to take to the bar for the next few hours, Matsukawa suggests, "If Japan wins, maybe you should just move in with me for good." 

Hanamaki freezes. "What?"

"You could," Matsukawa says as he's putting on his shoes. "You're coming back to Sendai after your temp work's done anyway. Why bunk at my place while you're looking for an apartment when you could just move in with me?" 

"You might get sick of me," Hanamaki teases as he slips on his own shoes. His laces are loose but he doesn't mind them. Matsukawa bends down to tighten them anyway. "God, this is kind of weird. I feel shy? Why're you asking like that? Think you're smooth or something?" 

"Technically, you just proposed to me one minute ago."

" _Hypothetically_ ," Hanamaki grumbles. "I was staking a claim." 

Matsukawa straightens up again to look Hanamaki in the eye, the curve of his lips a happy contrast to the sullen frown on Hanamaki's face. "Just say yes. Let's give Yahaba a real reason to buy a cake." He slips his hand behind his back, reaches for the door handle without breaking his gaze, but Hanamaki grabs his elbow.

"What if Japan doesn't win?" He's leaning forward like he expects Matsukawa to meet him halfway.

And Matsukawa does, stopping just short of their lips meeting. "Move in with me anyway," he murmurs. "We can pretend you felt bad for me if you're shy," he adds, teasingly.

"Fuck off," Hanamaki says with a grin. He kisses Matsukawa once; pulls away. "Where would I sleep?"

Matsukawa hums, reaching for Hanamaki with one hand and the door handle with another. "Futon's pretty comfy," he says. "Floor's heated." The door clicks and they take one, two steps _forward_ , fingers interlaced. "Bed's big enough too.")


End file.
